


for those who made the sacrifice

by AnnaofAza



Series: with this ring (debt be paid) [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29046207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Keith, in his first public debut as Shiro's husband, attends a war memorial.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: with this ring (debt be paid) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752307
Comments: 31
Kudos: 61





	for those who made the sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> If you wish to skip the somnophilia scene: it begins after "Stripping himself out of his clothes, Keith crawls into bed." Take care of yourselves!

Pressed clothes, velvet boots, Keith counts. Black gloves. A hat, though he doesn’t know if he’ll be allowed to keep it on inside the church. Hopefully, he can—it has a mourning veil that covers his eyes.

He then pins a brooch to his coat—Shiro likes to see his gifts on him—a tiny gold cross flecked with diamonds. Matching cufflinks adorn his wrists, _KS_ engraved in scrolling calligraphy. His wedding ring gleams on his finger.

When Keith heads downstairs, Shiro’s waiting for him at the door, his navy-blue soldier’s uniform glittering with medals and colorful bits of ribbon. Each button has been polished, along with a brass insignia that marks his rank—Keith recalls the same pin in a trunk pushed to the back of Kolivan’s closet.

Before he knew better, he used to play dress-up with Kolivan’s things, stepping into too-large boots and slipping into a coat that came down to his ankles. Over time, he had come back to the trunk to air it out, not quite daring to touch Kolivan’s letters bundled up in leftover bandages. He knows their names from Kolivan’s rare recollections—Ulaz, Antok, Thace—and from Mamora. They’d been the ones to stay in the back of the shop with the machinery and say very little.

He wonders if Kolivan or the others would come, but already doubts it. Shiro would never take him to a place where his old life would cross paths with his new one. Still, the slim hope made Keith ask if he could accompany Shiro to this ceremony. It had not been the plan, he sensed, but Shiro had agreed. Less attention, he’d speculated, and an appropriate venue where Keith had to do little in his first public appearance. And a pious activity, especially since—Keith subtly pointed out—he had familial military connections. Yes, he could go.

Shiro doesn’t object to the hat, much to Keith’s relief. He holds out his arm for Keith to take, then steers him into a waiting car.

Keith stares out the window, watching the manor shrink to the size of a dollhouse, then towards the sprawling grass of the countryside. Even though it’s sparsely populated with trees and an occasional deer, he drinks it in. He does not know, exactly, how long he’s been confined to Shiro’s land, but enough that his heart pounds at the sight of cars rumbling, at unlit lamps and cobblestones, at flags waving from balconies and street corners, at crowds bustling in the road. All are dressed in somber colors, and he can hear church bells ringing in the distance.

Beside him, Shiro’s staring straight ahead. He had not had breakfast, only black tea, and the impatient aura at the table had only allowed Keith to swallow a few bites of toast before heading upstairs to change. He had cast a mournful look at the table studded with jam and boiled eggs and sausage and orange juice, hoping there would be a meal after the ceremony.

The driver pulls in, opening the door for Shiro, who gracefully exits to do the same for Keith. He knows what to do—swinging his legs sideways, knees touching, hand up to receive Shiro’s—and as soon as he steps out, Shiro does not let go of his hand, in a way someone might hold a child’s to keep them from wandering off.

As usual, it’s gloved. White leather, Keith notices, and as supple as butter.

Outside, they pass a statue, tall and stately, with a plaque that’s already covered with bouquets, more color than Keith’s seen in months. The bronze glows in the sun, a handsome soldier looking upwards, hand shielding his forehead. At his feet are twining vines and flowers and leaves, the boots smooth and polished.

Shiro makes a noise in the back of his throat. Keith looks up, and to his surprise, sees mild disgust.

The cathedral is beautiful, the tallest building Keith’s ever seen—he wonders if this is where their wedding took place—lined with stained glass and polished arches and a marble fountain. Towards the side are candles, each lit in their own red jars, representing an individual prayer.

Keith stares at them, the flames flickering softly, the thin wooden sticks to light them, some still smoking at the tip, carrying wishes upward. He remembers a flash of something like that—not here—but his mother, lighting two sticks in slightly damp soil, heady scents hitting his face. It had been hot that day, with a lot of bugs, with food Keith remembered not being allowed to eat, despite that they were treats he loved, steamed buns stuffed with roasted pork and hand-carved jellies and perfect spheres of rice.

Keith moves closer, realizing he’s pulled Shiro with him, fingers stretching out towards the candles—then sees a tiny sign, _One coin to light one._

“May I?” he asks.

Shiro’s face is inscrutable, but Keith feels a coin press into his hand. He murmurs a thanks and dips one of the sticks into a candle flame until it lights, then gently coaxes another to life. As the flame takes over the battered wick, Keith bows his head. He’s not exactly sure what he prays for, but it feels all too soon that Shiro sweeps him away into a pew.

The pew remains empty for the whole ceremony.

Around them are murmurings of greetings, of well wishes, of gossip. Some come forward to shake Shiro’s hand and gawk at Keith, though none—thankfully—speak to him. He catches hints of _young_ , and wonders how Shiro looks beside him. Do people pity him? Envy him? Give him just a passing glance?

Someone leans forward, wonders why Shiro is not in some procession this year, to which Shiro smiles tightly.

“With all due respect, I’m not much for parades myself,” he demurs. “Besides, I do not wish to leave my new husband alone.”

Finally, it begins, with trumpets and drums outside and an organ booming so loudly that Keith can feel the vibrations through the pew. A line of uniformed soldiers march solemnly inside, led by a priest who holds up a gold-flecked Bible and altar servers lingering behind him in pristine white robes. They all stand, Shiro’s hand still clasping his, and tiny hymnals bound in red leather are passed around.

Holding his open, Keith mouths along as he slowly pans his gaze to the neighboring pews, the velvet covered altar, the windows. Shiro is simply standing with his eyes closed, as if being transported somewhere else, while the other soldiers are lined up in neat rows along the walls of the cathedral. Some are weeping, some are stonily silent, some are singing note-perfect with a hand on their chests. He hears occasional cheers from outside, muffled speeches when the singing ends, cameras clicking.

There are speeches about honor and glory and kingdom of Heaven, long enough that heat begins to seep through the windows and there’s a rustle of fans being brought out. Keith looks around again, stomach hollow, as one of the soldiers—tall and slender with a braided coil across his shoulder—stifles a yawn. He ducks his head, smiling a bit underneath his veil, then catches Shiro looking at him and immediately turns his gaze forward.

Shiro gives a speech, too, stepping up to the podium without a sheet of paper. If there's anything to admire about him, it's the way he speaks, as if he’s talking to one person in the audience, with his voice projecting to all ends of the cathedral. It's brief, but has all the good things, valor and honor and _lest we forget_ , along with dawn lighting a new era of peace.

There’s polite applause when he finishes, but Shiro’s mouth is unsmiling when he takes his seat beside Keith.

Finally, after another procession, they go outside, where the statue’s being officially unveiled, with more speeches, peppered with names and organizations who donated to the commission. The statue, he can see, has no scars, no dirt, no imperfections. Its square jaw is clean-shaven without a hint of stubble, its lips curved in a pensive smile, face eternally youthful. The plaque’s been cleared so Keith can read _For those who willingly made the supreme sacrifice._

Keith understands Shiro’s disgust, what he did not see at first. Perhaps the statue should be less glorious, but without that, who would fight? Who would see a better ending?

He comes forward with Shiro as he lays down a wreath, hearing more camera clicks, keeping his eyes to the ground as Shiro’s hands rest briefly on the white flowers, shaped like drooping stars. They’ll likely be in a paper; he hopes Kolivan sees it, knows that Keith is all right.

Wreaths soon cover the feet of the statue. The yawning soldier steps forward to lay one, and Keith does his best to stare ahead, even when the soldier looks at him for a second too long.

Lastly is a parade, with horses and cars strewn with flags and flowers and brass music. More cameras aim at the crowd, flash bulbs bright against his eyelids, despite the veil. There’s people in the crowd clapping, some with handkerchiefs clutched to their faces, a few kids perched on shoulders. He scans each face but recognizes none of them.

Towards the end, ceremonial cannons fire, so close that Keith can feel the heat of the muzzles, and Shiro’s grip becomes tighter, almost painful.

“Shall we go?” he asks.

“We must stay,” Shiro says stiffly. He does, though, lean into Keith like a walking stick as prayers wash over them, the heat becoming more and more oppressive. Keith’s more thankful for the hat, but wishes he’d thought to bring an umbrella like so many did; sweat’s trickling down his forehead.

And as soon as the last horse rounds the corner, Shiro ushers them into the waiting car.

The ride back reminds Keith of the wedding night. Going back hits him with a sense of despair, even more so when he realizes he cannot look back with any nostalgia or hope, or take the joy he once had at looking outside.

It does not help that Shiro is completely silent. He does not touch Keith, which is a relief, but the air feels crushing, similar to if he disobeyed Kolivan and was waiting for punishment. He did everything right, didn't he? This is not his fault?

He reaches out but dares not to touch Shiro. "Shiro," he begins.

"You may request a meal when we get back," Shiro says shortly. "I am not that much hungry. You can eat it in the library."

Keith withdraws his hand and says no more.

When they arrive, Shiro immediately goes upstairs without so much as handing his jacket over to a servant. Even from down here, Keith can hear their bedroom door close with a sharp click.

He does, however, place an order, then goes to waits in the library; of course, he knows better than to even step in the kitchen to make a sandwich. He hands his gloves to another servant, then his hat, shaking his hair free of the ebony pins.

Keith finds himself turning to the book he's abandoned before his lessons, neatly slid back into place on one of the shelves. He cracks it open and traces the painting of a hawk, gliding in the air, talons poised over a tiny sparrow.

Hawks are not exactly companions in the traditional sense, he reads. It's a bond of mutual respect, and the hawk is the one who decides, despite its eyes being sewn shut or hooded. The hawk depends on its master, but the book warns once it's in the air, it's free. It can and sometimes does fly away, or is taken by another predator.

Keith wonders if he can send away for some instructional materials. It would almost be like a substitute for the real thing, if not as satisfactory.

The rest of the day passes by. Shiro does not come down for dinner, a first, so Keith orders another plate to take out into the garden, along with some books, draping his jacket over a bench to sit down. He feels strangely free but nervous, as tense as the air around him, crackling with unseen electricity. He has to come back into the house sometime, and go upstairs.

He ventures a glance upward. Sometimes, he sees Shiro peering at him from his desk, or feels eyes on the back of his neck. But this time, he sees nothing but a dark room, curtains drawn.

No one disturbs him, except to retrieve his plate and ask if he wants some tea. Keith politely refuses, asks for a lantern, and reaches for another book. The pages crack as he turns them, allowing his mind to drift away in the worlds of faraway jungles and cities that never sleep.

A sudden drop of water hits him on the nose, and he quickly throws his jacket over the book and runs for the indoors, just as rain pours down. When he looks outside, Keith spots a flash of lightning, hears a startled cry as servants hurry to turn off the power.

He clutches the books to his chest, glancing up at the grandfather clock, pendulum swinging slowly. The room’s already dark, rain streaking the windows, and when he tries the library door, it’s locked.

Reluctantly, Keith puts the books down on a nearby chair, resolving to come back for them, and begins to climb the stairs, lighting the way with his lantern.

When he creeps inside, Shiro is in bed. Keith can smell alcohol, as strongly as he were standing next to him. He's breathing shallowly, clothes strewn over the carpet, white gloves tossed on the wardrobe.

Keith lowers the lantern to Shiro's face; he does not so much as stir. Keith’s reminded one of the myths he had to translate, about a woman who married a god of love who never allowed her to see his face, who was convinced by her sisters she married a monster. After dark, she had leaned over his sleeping form with a candle, and immediately saw that he was not.

Keith’s unsure what he's supposed to see. Shiro looks the same as always, and his face does not show a glaring tyrant or a world-weary child. He’s as enigmatic as he is awake.

Lighting, he blows out the lamp and places it on the nightstand, along with the brooch and the cufflinks. There are proper places to put them, but he’s so tired, and doesn’t wish to wake Shiro by searching through tiny boxes. Shiro’s unlikely to scold him anyway, seeing as he’d left his own possessions lying around.

Stripping himself out of his clothes, Keith crawls into bed.

* * *

He’s woken in the middle of the night by Shiro’s cock pushing into him.

Keith has to bite down hard on his wrist to stop himself from crying out. His knees are folded against his chest, hands gripping his thighs, cold air on his bare back and shoulders, as Shiro pushes down on his legs, then apart, out of the way. His hair’s falling down around his shoulders, a forgotten pin bouncing against his neck.

He whimpers, as Shiro thrusts in deeper, sending a shiver throughout his body. Outside, thunder crashes, more rain drumming heavily on the window. His eyes focus on the glittering bits of gold on the nightstand, then another—he does not know what—that has been knocked onto the floor.

Shiro’s right hand reaches forward, clenching around his jaw. His breath rattles in his chest as metal pushes against bone, as another hand strays downward to slide over his cock, slick running down his thighs. Keith gasps again, and Shiro’s hand clamps over his mouth, hips moving more frantically, yet each thrust is deliberate. He starts rubbing Keith’s cock harder, almost painfully, reaches away to spit harshly onto his fingers, repeating.

It’s a cufflink that’s fallen, Keith now sees. His mind feels almost feverish, tracing the letters he knows that are there. _KS, KS, KS,_ for _Keith Shirogane._ Or had Shiro simply whisked away something of his brother’s and given it to him? _Kuron, Ryou. Kuron_ and _Ryou._ They were buried here. He could hide there next time, away from Shiro’s eyes—

Shiro’s teeth come down to clamp over Keith’s neck as he finishes, still strongly smelling of alcohol, come spilling down his thighs and onto the sheets, as he whispers an unfamiliar name.

He’d feel insulted in that if he were actually Shiro’s husband in more than name, yet Keith lies there, teeth still fastened at his wrist, waiting for it to be over. In mind’s eye, he sees a candle flame bob, encased in translucent red, as a hand creeps towards his inner thigh, squeezes once, runs over Keith’s ass. The metal is cool against Keith’s flushed skin, even when it presses against Keith’s hole, prods the give, cock still inside. Has he done this before? Has Keith never woken up until now?

Shiro doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, breaching him slowly, then pulling back, dragging across every nerve, every bump, fingers joining in to scoop and drag more into the sheets, slowly growing damp on Keith’s knees. It’s almost idle—no, it’s same exhausted way Keith would get after pounding his fists against his pillow.

Shiro pulls completely out, then a finger slides in. A mouth’s pressed again into Keith’s neck, as he dips the finger his knuckle and slides out again. Keith lies motionless, as more are added, then draw out so slowly that Keith nearly falls back asleep, flickering in and out of consciousness. He wishes he could, pillow pressed against his cheek, waking up to find that it was only a dream. Perhaps he should turn his head so his nose and mouth are pressed against fabric, allowing him to slip away. Would Shiro stop then? He does not think so.

Finally, Shiro’s weight lifts off of his body, Keith getting out a shaking gasp despite himself. Shiro runs a hand once over his back, then gets up, padding towards the washroom. Keith lays there, uncertain and afraid, wondering if there will be more.

A soft damp cloth drapes over his skin and begins cleaning him up. Keith fights to lie still, even as Shiro walks away again and slips back beside him, pulling the covers over their shoulders. He can feel the wetness drying against his thigh, the soiled sheets.

Looking down, Keith no longer sees the cufflink. Perhaps Shiro kicked it away. He’ll have to find it in the morning; it’s probably under the bed. He’ll have to wake up early to scrounge around. The light will be better to see by. He would not need the lantern.

He turns around so Shiro’s hand falls from his shoulder, looking at the unlit lantern, a chip on the edge of the glass. Slowly but surely, Keith drifts off, and dreams of flames eating the room.


End file.
